


that's just the way you make me feel

by gdgdbaby



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-22 15:19:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17062220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: Gay chicken isn't supposed to work when everyone already knows you're a flaming homosexual.





	that's just the way you make me feel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [duckgirlie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckgirlie/gifts).



> zoe!! happy holidays ♥ it's already been jossed by real life, but i hope you enjoy this treat as much as i enjoyed writing it for you. title from janelle monae's make me feel. thanks to w for looking this over and telling me to add more.

Like most things, the first time it happens, Louis is at a bar.

They blew past midnight hours ago, and Louis has been summarily dispatched to grab the last round for the table. On the way back around the dance floor, he's balancing six drinks on a tray and weaving through the crush of people and still frankly killing it, bopping along to the Rihanna club mix pouring through the speakers. He's almost made it back to their booth when he bounces off a six foot wall of muscle.

Of course it's Tristan, some blond-haired, blue-eyed tank Louis had been making eyes with earlier, until he'd had too terrible an opinion about Amy Adams for Louis to even entertain sleeping with him anymore. Some days you just have to put your foot down, and Louis has never been _that_ hard up. "Hi, bye," Louis says, trying to slide by him.

"Wait," Tristan says, closing a hand around one of Louis's wrists. Under normal circumstances, he'd pull some sort of evasive maneuver — it pays to have bony fucking elbows — but right now he's hampered by the drinks. Four years of working service jobs to put himself through college hadn't exactly prepared him for this scenario.

"Please let me go," Louis says, eerily calm, letting his eyes go wider. Usually the creepy Nicole Kidman bit manages to freak people out, but for some reason Tristan seems more encouraged. The grip around Louis's wrist tightens, anyway, hard enough that the tray starts to wobble. God, he's going to throw a fit if all the drinks take a plunge off the deep end and he has to go put everyone's orders in again. What a monumental waste of good alcohol.

And then: "Louis," Ira's sing-song voice floats over the rumbling bass. He presses up against Louis's left side, solid and warm, palm curling around Louis's hip. "There you are."

Tristan sizes Ira up, eyes going narrow. "This your boyfriend?"

"And so what if I am?" Ira says, dropping his chin on Louis's shoulder before he can respond. "Fuck off, he doesn't want to talk to you."

Louis can't quite see Ira's face from this angle, but his expression must be convincing enough, because Tristan lets go of Louis's wrist and takes a step back.

"Better keep that one on a leash if you don't want him slutting around," Tristan calls as he slinks away. On the scale of mean things that have been said to Louis's face, it's pretty weak.

When they get back to their table, Louis slides in across from Ira and rolls his wrist out. "Didn't need you to swoop in like the Dark Knight," he says, raising a delicate eyebrow. "I could've handled it."

Ira snorts. "By reciting IMDb until he was bored to death? Bold move, but it definitely would've taken too long."

Chris grabs his Moscow mule from the tray. "Handled what?" Sam asks, idly curious.

"Some asshole," Ira says, waving a dismissive hand. "Honestly, Louis, I just wanted to get my cocktail before the ice melted."

"Oh, sure," Louis says, lifting his own martini and taking a quick sip. "You're lucky he didn't recognize you. Anyone who knows you knows you're all bark and no bite, anyway."

"You know I only bite if asked, honey," Ira returns, sugar sweet, and grins around the rim of his glass when Louis groans.

 

 

Louis doesn't really think about it again until months later, in Palm Springs in October for Chris's birthday, when they're lounging poolside at a fancy hotel. This time they're with a larger group of people, and Louis is much drunker and much higher. The world tilts gently every time he sinks further into the recline of his deck chair.

As the sun inches across the sky, someone's phone starts ringing in the general vicinity. It's not until a shadow falls over Louis and he manages to turn his head that he realizes it's _his._ He would get it, but it's laid out on the far corner of a beach towel on the floor, and right now it's difficult to even focus on anything that isn't the baking sun or the heavy weight of his limbs, let alone sit up.

The shadow above him belongs to Ira, and as Louis watches, Ira rolls his eyes and bends over to answer the phone for him, voice blending in with the low hum of their other friends chatting with each other. Louis lifts his eyes back up to the sky, sunglasses sweaty against the bridge of his nose, and counts clouds until his fingers stop tingling.

Later, when Louis has drifted back into himself, he manages to prop himself up on his elbows without his head flopping back between his shoulders. Tony and Brendan have somehow convinced Chris that actually getting into the water is a good idea, and Rheeq is busy inflating a gigantic rainbow unicorn float for the birthday boy to ride on. Ira's sitting on the beach towel and paging through his own phone now, and he huffs when he glances up and sees Louis staring at him.

"Hey, spacecase," he says, flicking a finger against Louis's thigh. "I had to say I was your boyfriend so your brother wouldn't call 911 because some random person answered your phone for you."

Louis blinks at him. "Jim or Greg?"

"Jim," Ira says. "I think he forgot you were out of town this weekend. Didn't seem to know who I was, either. Does he not listen to the pod? My voice is very distinct."

"Dad's the superfan," Louis says, shrugging. "Have you considered that our target demographic might be the corn-fed over-fifty crowd?"

Ira sighs, long-suffering. "I'll take it, I guess." He scans his eyes down Louis's body with a critical eye, intense in a way that doesn't make Louis feel anything at all. "You're gonna burn if you don't put on some more sunblock."

"Ugh," Louis says, flopping backward again and letting out an exaggerated wheeze. "My arms feel like jelly."

"Fine, pillow princess, I'll do it for you," Ira says, even more long-suffering, and reaches over him to grab the bottle.

 

 

Louis is pretty sure, at this point, that Ira's pretended to date every single person in their entire friend group at least once. "The scammer life," he characterized it earlier this year, after nabbing a Valentine's Day prix fixe dinner reservation at some swanky steakhouse in Westwood, ostensibly for his and Cameron's "five year anniversary." And Louis gets that part. In a city where everything seems to cost twice as much as it would back at home, Louis understands the impulse to fib a little to get the best deals, especially if all you have to do is fake a relationship.

But the real kicker is that Louis wouldn't even care if it didn't seem real sometimes — if it didn't seem real right now. Ira's always possessed a singular ability to get under his skin, to needle him until they're sparring on the pod or trading increasingly obscure daytime soap opera references, to Kara's dismay. But he's surprisingly thoughtful too, in ways that Louis sometimes doesn't have time to reflect on till after the fact. Ira restocked their coffee at the office after Lovett got into it, no questions asked. He's asked Louis to be his plus one to many an awards season movie screening. In November, after Ira gets back from his European jaunt, he brings little souvenirs to the office for everyone. "Your favorite flavor of poppers, Paris style," Ira says solemnly, presenting Louis with a frilly artisanal bag, and then they get into it with Tommy, sweet child, who doesn't actually know what poppers are.

It's all normal friend stuff, Louis thinks, except that for some reason, taken now as a whole, it feels like they could be more than the sum of their parts.

Jesus. Gay chicken isn't supposed to work when everyone already knows you're a flaming homosexual. The whole point is to get someone to admit it, and that ship sailed for both of them a long time ago.

Maybe the difference is that he just notices it more when it happens these days, a byproduct of seeing each other so much for the pod. What's the saying? Proximity breeds contempt — or, in this case, an inconvenient, unnecessary crush. "I kept Louis for a hundred days, and now I have to keep him," Ira said during an ad read in September, smiling toothily at Louis over his mic. Louis had looked at him and thought, _I wouldn't mind_ , and then, immediately after, _oh no._

 

 

They're in studio with D'arcy the second week of December, talking about Beyonce's performance at Isha Ambani's wedding, when Ira escalates it again. Louis spends too long coming up with the most outrageous song to walk down the aisle to, which ends up being: "My Neck My Back by Khia. And by the way, it's going to be played by—"

"Strings?" D'arcy supplies.

"Elton John, yes, and strings. Full orchestral arrangement."

He isn't prepared when Ira sends him a shit-eating grin and says, " _I_ didn't agree to walk down the aisle to that, Louis." He isn't prepared for it to suck the air right out of his lungs.

Half the other people in the room splutter into laughter. D'arcy glances between them, eyes bright and animated. "Alright, Ira," Louis says, pressing a hand to his chest, trying not to seem too flustered. "Sure. It's on."

"I don't know about this new bit that they're trying to do," Kara says loudly, and Ira starts giggling too.

D'arcy leans in, chin propped in her palm. "That they're getting married?"

Kara shakes her head. "That they're together. It's very weird for me."

"I'm just crazy," Ira says, meeting Louis's eyes again.

"What do you mean?" D'arcy asks, eyebrows raised high. "Crazy in love?"

"That's right," Louis says weakly. The conversation swerves to Beyonce again soon after, like it usually does, but Louis's brain keeps circling back to the sly expression on Ira's face. Another fixation to pick at.

"What was that?" Kara asks him when they've finished recording their ads, sitting out in the main office. Ira's gone, off to his next appointment, but the rest of Louis's day is free. There are probably enough therapy dogs milling around for Crooked Media to launch a fairly lucrative side gig, so he might just stay here forever. "Seriously, Louis. Marriage? I leave for a couple of weeks and this is what happens?"

"Ira started it," Louis says, because petulant child has always been a great look for him.

Kara sends him a flat look. "Really? That's what you're going with?"

Louis sinks back into the couch and stares at the ceiling. One of the dogs takes the opportunity to hop up into his lap, and he spends a couple of breaths sliding a hand through its warm fur. "Don't worry about it," he says, biting his lip. He's gotten over plenty of inconvenient crushes in the past. He can do it again now. "It's a me thing. I'll figure it out."

Kara huffs, nudging his shoulder. "Don't do that. You know I'm a worrier. Telling me not to worry just makes it worse. Do I have to look for a new podcast gig?"

Louis lets out a startled laugh. He shakes his head as he turns to look at her. "You can worry if you want, but I'm a big boy, Kara. You should trust that I can handle it."

"And what have you ever done to deserve that trust?" Kara returns without missing a beat, but it's softer, her hand curling against his neck. Louis chuckles again, closing his eyes, and gives the goldendoodle in his lap another firm pet. It _does_ make him feel a little better.

 

 

Louis's family flies into Los Angeles the Friday before Christmas. The next morning, he meets them at their hotel. It takes him about half a minute to realize that, in typical small-town Illinois fashion, Ira's innocuous phone call with Jim in October has somehow traversed its way through the grapevine and blown up beyond belief.

"Hey," Louis says, when Ira picks up on the third ring.

"Why are you calling instead of texting?" Ira says suspiciously. "Is someone dead?"

"My perpetual bachelor status, maybe?" he replies, sighing. When he looks back over his shoulder, his brothers are nodding along to something Dad is saying. Louis swallows, trying to tamp down the nervous flip of his stomach. "Look, I know this might not fit into your busy holiday schedule, so feel free to say no, but is there a chance you'd be free tomorrow? Jim told my family — and my entire extended family, and all our old neighbors, and everyone at Lemont High School, for completion's sake — that I've been seeing someone, and now they all really want to meet you. Gloria genuinely will not stop talking about anything else."

"Oh," Ira says. If Louis didn't know any better, he'd think Ira sounded kind of pleased. "Yeah, I can make it. Just tell me when and where."

The Virtel clan spends the rest of Saturday at the beach, mostly so everyone can get in their quota of marveling at how much warmer it is here than it is in Illinois or Massachusetts. Louis does a pretty good job of ignoring the upcoming genre shift of his life into a romcom, at least until his parents finish interrogating Greg about his grad school prospects and turn their attention back on him. Louis manages to remain tight-lipped about the whole thing ("Guys, you're literally going to meet him tomorrow. Please calm down and save your questions for him.") but he does flip open his iMessage chain with Ira when he gets home that night.

_should we hash out the details of our torrid love affair so we've got our story straight?_

_in a way, you could say that our story is extremely un-straight_ , Ira replies, which Louis appreciates as a zinger but really isn't helpful at all. He responds with a string of eyeroll emojis and gets back: _hey, haven't you been talking about wanting to brush up on your improv skills, anyway? yes-and my outrageous lies. or you could just tell the truth._

 _The truth_ , Louis thinks grimly, kicking his socks off and sliding into bed. Whoever said it would set you free never mentioned how shitty it would feel living through it.

 

 

Their Sunday brunch reservation is for 10AM at BBCM, because Mom likes to get an early start. Ira shows up on time for once in his life, stepping out of his Lyft with dark sunglasses tucked into the collar of his graphic tee and one of his fancier cardigans draped across his shoulders. "I'm surprised you rolled yourself out of bed at this hour," Louis quips as they get seated.

Ira makes a wounded noise, moving their chairs closer together so he can toss his arm over the back of Louis's. This close, Louis can tell he smells like pine, woody and a little spicy. Louis tries not to breathe too deeply. "You know I've been trying to be better about that," he says. "Plus, how could I miss getting to see Lee and Gloria?"

Ira's always had the capacity to be charming as hell when he wants to be, and he's out in full force today, swapping stories about growing up in the midwest with Mom and attempting to explain Instagram to Dad. When their drinks come, Greg mentions that he's been working at a brewery for the past couple of years, and Ira even manages to pull out some obscure beer facts to impress him with.

When the food comes, all the kids take pictures of it like good millennials, and then Ira's aiming his phone at him, grinning with teeth. "Smile," he sing-songs.

"I had no idea you were such a beerhead," Louis says, making a face before Ira pans away to get Jim and Greg waving in the video as well.

"I'm gonna put this up on my story," Ira says, already tapping away on his screen. "The Virtels Three."

Jim grins and makes peace signs with both hands. "Our other brother Mark is gonna be so mad he missed this."

For a while, the table fills with the noise of biting and chewing and knives scraping against plates. Louis swallows around a bite of eggs benedict, and his phone buzzes against his leg. When he looks, Kara's sent him a DM with Ira's Instagram story, along with the message _he's meeting your family???? louis!!!!_

Louis tucks his phone back in his pocket and cuts himself another piece of English muffin. He admirably does not choke on his food when Mom primly spears a piece of fruit with her fork and says, "So, how did you lovebirds meet?"

Ira cuts a sideways glance at him. "On the internet, actually," he says. "Not on the dating apps, though. It might've been Twitter, I think?"

It's technically true. Ira was still at the Daily Beast when Louis first became friends with him; back then, Twitter still skewed toward hot takes about things that _weren't_ politics. "You could say it's a minor miracle we met on that hell website and managed to get all the way here," Louis says, dry. The laughter that ripples out around the table settles him down a little. He can do this. He can fake his way through being Ira's pretend boyfriend for another day, and then they can talk to each other like adults and stop this nonsense charade.

"So you were friends first?" Dad asks. "Gloria and I were, too."

"Yeah," Ira says. "We hang out with a lot of the same people, and we kept seeing each other regularly, so we thought — you know, why not give it a shot?"

"All our friends were dating each other anyway," Louis says, which also isn't a lie. The LA gay scene has always been pretty incestuous.

"And now we're on a podcast together," Ira finishes, grinning at him. "Which hasn't killed our relationship yet, so you know it's real."

Something about the way he says it makes Louis's chest constrict, even as everyone else starts laughing again. Louis plasters a smile on his face and keeps eating. Ira didn't even really have to make anything up, which should make Louis feels better. Mostly he just feels ill. It could all be real so easily, in a parallel universe where almost everything else was the same, but it isn't. Louis wishes he wanted it less.

It's past noon when they wrap up their meal and emerge back out into the sunshine. Dad and Jim want to go see the Griffith Observatory, take pictures with the Hollywood sign, so they take a couple of rideshares over.

"Ira's such a nice young man," Mom tells him on the hike up to the building, the gravel crunching beneath their feet. "I didn't think you had it in you." She glances over her shoulder at the stragglers behind them, and Louis turns too, watches Ira toss his head back and laugh at something Dad's telling him. Louis hopes it's not some embarrassing story about his childhood, but he's not optimistic.

"What, because all of my exes have been so terrible?" Louis says, irritable. "Ira can be terrible in his own way, you know. Obviously he's on his best behavior right now, but that's because he's meeting you."

"Sure," Mom says easily, hooking her arm through his. "But you need someone that can handle you. And I think it's nice that you make each other happy." Out the corner if his eye, he can see her smiling, and something twists in his chest. "You deserve that for yourself, baby."

As if on cue, Ira looks up at them and grins again, eyes glinting behind his glasses. There's a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his brow, and Louis exhales through the sudden urge to run back and kiss him. "Try to keep up," he calls instead. Ira flashes him the finger, unrepentant.

Mom laughs. "Oh, I _like_ him," she says, squeezing Louis's arm, and keeps pulling them forward.

 

 

The sun is starting to set by the time they hike back down toward where Lyfts will pick them up. Louis tends to pride himself on being relatively fit, but even his calves are starting to get sore from walking around so much. They're waiting for the cars to arrive when Dad turns to Ira and says, casual as anything, "We're driving out to Joshua Tree tomorrow and spending Christmas in a cabin there. If you don't have any other plans, you're welcome to join us."

There's no room for Louis to make a cutting motion against his neck without being seen by another member of his family, but fortunately, Ira has some level of sense. "I'm actually flying home on Christmas Eve, but I appreciate the invitation," he says smoothly. "I'll be sorry to miss it."

 _Goody two shoes_ , Louis mouths from behind Mom's head, and Ira bites his lip to keep from smiling.

"Speaking of plans, though," he continues, ignoring Louis's squint. "I don't know what you have scheduled tonight, but I'm going to have to steal Louis from you."

"What?" Louis squawks, at the same time Mom clasps her hands together.

"I booked a nice dinner for us down in West Hollywood," Ira says with a wide flourish, "and our reservation is at seven."

Before Louis can protest, Ira's bodily ushering him toward the silver Accord that has just pulled up to the curb. "Oh, how romantic," he hears Mom say, and then the door slams shut behind them.

"What are you doing?" Louis says as their driver peels away from the curb, voice still too high.

"I thought you would appreciate the quick getaway," Ira says, tapping away on his phone. He glances at him, tongue stuck out impishly. "Plus, there's no way I was giving up this table at Ivory on Sunset. You know how hard it was to get a reservation on a holiday weekend?"

"Oh my God," Louis mutters, draping a hand over his face. "Of course. Figures."

"What?"

He raises his fingers to make air quotes. "The scammer life."

"Or we can get more shareables this way," Ira says reasonably, and Louis shakes his head, too tired to push back. He'd been meaning to go to Ivory on Sunset anyway. Two birds, one stone.

"At least tell me we're going home and cleaning up first."

"I'm not a heathen, Louis," Ira says, faux disdain dripping from his voice. It feels almost normal enough that Louis can genuinely laugh at the joke.

 

 

Their Lyft driver drops them off at Ira's with time to spare, and Louis walks the two blocks back to his own apartment so that he can shower and change into non-sweaty clothing in peace. He'll wash his hair, blow dry it quickly, and throw on an outfit that looks passably nice for dinner at a restaurant with three dollar signs on Yelp. At the end of the night, Louis will thank Ira for pretending to be his boyfriend in front of his parents. He'll maybe even foot the bill. In a couple weeks, when his family is no longer breathing down his neck, he'll tell everyone that it just hadn't worked out. They parted amicably. It'll be easier that way.

The fragile feeling of stability that Louis builds up on the ride to the restaurant immediately dissipates when they get seated and their server, an older gentleman named Frank, comes up to take their drink order.

"It's our anniversary," Ira says, leaping into full Joanne mode, folding Louis's hand in one of his. "I think we'll take a bottle of your finest champagne to start."

"Stop," Louis hisses, digging his nails into Ira's palm hard enough that he lets go with a quiet huff. Frank looks vaguely alarmed. "Sorry," Louis tells him. "Could you excuse us for a second?"

Ira's rubbing the center of his hand when Louis turns back to him. "What's up with yout?" Ira asks, a wounded expression on his face.

"We've got to stop doing this," Louis says wearily, deflating like a sad day-old helium balloon.

Ira's brow furrows. "What are you talking about?"

Louis gestures between them, throat going tight despite his best efforts to remain calm. "This — this hilarious joke where we keep pretending we're seeing each other. It's not funny, Ira. I can't pretend like I'm fine with it anymore."

Ira's face darkens. "Oh, I'm sorry that the idea of dating me is so repugnant to you."

"Right, that's it," Louis says dully. "That's exactly it." If he pushes back, he'll just have to explain everything, and he doesn't know if he'll ever be in the right headspace for that. "Sorry — I need to go."

"Louis!" Ira says, but Louis is already pushing away from the table, ears ringing. He blows past Frank, who's coming up the stairs with that bottle of champagne, and spends a couple minutes shivering on the sidewalk, waiting for a taxicab back to the apartment. It's empty when he gets back, his roommates gone for the holidays, which is just as well. He wouldn't want to be around himself right now if he could help it. This way, he doesn't even have to share the vodka.

 

 

Louis wakes up too early Monday morning with a hangover the size of Texas and half a dozen assorted messages from his family about when they're coming to pick him up. Nothing from Ira, which he probably should've expected but still makes his stomach sink anyway. Louis brushes the grimy taste out of his mouth, downs a scalding cup of black coffee, and throws two days worth of clothing, a couple books, and his haul of Christmas gifts into a duffel.

 _sorry_ , he sends Ira while waiting outside his apartment complex. He sends it to Kara too for good measure, caught in the crossfire of his messiness through no fault of her own, and then turns on _Do Not Disturb_ and shoves his phone deep into one of the pockets of his bag. Maybe they really will replace him on the pod, like Ira's been threatening to this whole time. He boxes that thought up and shelves it away; that's a problem for post-holiday Louis.

"You look like shit," Jim tells him helpfully when they arrive, scooting over to make room for him to squeeze into the rental car.

"Nothing like an older brother to put you in your place," Louis says, jamming his sunglasses tighter over his eyes, and dozes against the window for most of the drive over.

Joshua Tree remains as perfect for the Instagram aesthetic as it was the last time Louis visited a couple years ago, arid and rugged. They arrive in the early afternoon and grab a late lunch at some cafe in town before driving out to the cabin. Louis has recovered enough by then to help his parents schlepp their bags and a cooler into the house, which is decked out in holiday decorations and a big tree in the foyer. He'll have to write a nice review on the AirBnB website.

He gets a room with big bay windows facing the craggly terrain behind the house and the sloping mountains in the distance. There's an attached bathroom, too, where he drops his duffel, and then he flops down on the bed with a long sigh. A few minutes later, there's a knock on the door, and Louis lifts his head briefly to see Dad standing there, hands tucked loosely in the pockets of his jeans.

"Bonfire tonight?" he inquires. "We bought hot dogs and s'mores fixings."

"Okay," Louis says. That does sound nice.

He should dig one of his books out and read for the rest of the afternoon, but he feels too listless to pay anything that kind of attention, let alone tiny words printed on a page. Eventually, Mom does manage to coax him out into the living room to watch them play euchre. Usually, spectating as his parents destroy Jim and Greg is perfect entertainment, but today it only reminds him of his trip to Mexico City with the boys in July, drinking beer and eating street tacos and playing cards until dawn. The gleam of Ira's teeth as he tossed his head back in uncontrollable laughter as he and Louis wiped the floor with Chris and Tony. Had it started then, or was it earlier, when Ira showed up to support him at UBC's open mic night in the spring, or even when Keep It was just an idea with a couple of chemistry test episodes? Looking back now, it feels impossible to pinpoint. It just is.

Louis picks at his dinner later, when they're all sitting around the campfire and grilling hot dogs. Mom tucks a nicely crisped one in a bun and comes over holding a bottle of Heinz relish, sinks down next to him on the bench. They sit in companionable silence for a moment, watching Greg attempt to spear three hot dogs and grill them all together, and then Mom turns toward him.

"You don't have to talk about it," she says, "but I'm here to listen if you want to."

His oldest, best audience, still, even after all these years. Louis stares into the flickering fire, feeling like a less multilingual Timothee Chalamet, and shrugs listlessly. "I, ah, had a fight with Ira," Louis says. "Kind of stormed out on him last night. It wasn't great."

She hums. Takes another bite of her hot dog, chewing slowly. "The first time my parents met your dad, we ended up having a big blowout fight, too," she says. "I don't really remember the details anymore, but we ended up alright, huh?"

 _The difference is your entire relationship wasn't built on total artifice,_ Louis thinks, but it's not like he can say that. "It's not his fault, really," Louis admits. "I haven't been entirely truthful with him."

"That's not like you," she chides, knocking their knees together. "The Louis I know tells everyone exactly what he's thinking, whether they want to hear it or not."

"Poor Principal Trengove," Louis says, the corner of his mouth twitching. "It's not that easy sometimes."

"True," she says, "but if it were easy, it wouldn't be worth doing, would it?"

"Ooh," Louis says. "Very _I'm Going to Tell You a Secret_ era Madonna. I dig it."

Mom shakes her head and pats his leg. "Chin up, honey," she says. "You'll make it through."

 

 

By the time they drive back to Los Angeles on Wednesday, Louis has formulated most of a plan. He waits for the shuttle to the airport with them, gives them all big hugs before they leave. "I keep trying to get my bosses to agree to a live Keep It show in Lemont, but they keep shooting me down," he says, squeezing Mom extra tight. She laughs in his ear, pressing closer on tiptoe. "But I'll see you again soon enough."

When he gets home, he girds his loins, plugs his phone in, and starts swiping through all his missed notifications. There's no email from Crooked firing him, which is something, but Kara's been sending him increasingly frantic texts. _i'm fine_ , he sends her. _just got back from christmas with the fam in joshua tree, i'll see you at brunch on saturday._

According to Instagram, Ira's still in Milwaukee, which gives him a little bit of time. Louis spends way too long staring at their iMessage chain, his last text unanswered, the typing cursor blinking accusingly at him.

 _will you be back by friday?_ he says in the end. _let me take you out to dinner._

 _k_ Ira sends him a couple hours later, when Louis is trying to work his nerves out at the gym. It's not the most enthusiastic message in the world, but at least Ira didn't leave him on read this time.

 

 

Waiting at the same table at Ivory on Sunset is probably as much of a romcom cliche as any other, but Louis kind of likes the circularity of it. At five past seven, Louis orders a glass of wine from his server — Donna this time, a sweet young southern transplant — and settles in for the long haul.

Ira shows up ten minutes later, fairly early for him, all things considered. He shrugs his nice blazer off and plops down into the seat catty corner to Louis's. "Interesting place you picked," he says evenly, face unreadable, and picks up the drink menu.

"I wanted a do-over," Louis says, straightening up in his seat. He folds his hands together so they don't shake too much. "So I could apologize, and explain myself."

"I'm listening," Ira replies.

Donna takes that opportunity to swing by again, a big smile on her face. "Good evening, gentlemen. Can I get you anything else to drink?"

Louis smiles back at her. "It's our anniversary," he says, tilting his head, "so how about your bottle of nicest champagne?"

"Louis…"

Louis exhales as she floats away again. "Look, I'm not good at talking about stuff like this," he says slowly, trying to collect himself. He stares out the window for a minute, at the twinkling lights of Los Angeles at dusk. The last time he was here, he hadn't really had a chance to admire the view. "But I'm going to try it for once, and then we can forget all about it and move forward."

Ira sighs, exasperated. "Just spit it out, Louis."

He takes a steadying breath, fingers clenching into loose fists. "It's not you that's the problem. It's me, but not the way you're thinking. Anybody would be lucky to be dating you, even with your nonsensical sleep schedule and reality TV binge-watching." Ira lets out a soft chuckle, and Louis keeps going, encouraged. "I guess I blew up on Sunday because I couldn't handle being your pretend boyfriend without stopping myself from hoping, against all the odds, that you might also want it to be real. That's all." There's no response from the other side of the table. Louis can't bring himself to look at Ira, so he just takes another shallow breath. "I know it's hard to believe coming from someone as allergic to sincere feelings as I am, but don't worry. I'll get over it soon enough, I'm sure."

Louis is two seconds away from bolting out of the restaurant and ghosting the entire city he's built his life around for the past nine years when a curious thing happens. On Louis's right, Ira begins to _laugh._

"Hey," Louis says indignantly, head snapping toward him. "Are you really laughing at me right now?"

"Sorry, " Ira says, catching his breath. "Sorry, I just — what if I don't want to forget it?"

"What?"

"What if I don't want to forget all about what you just said?" Ira twirls a fork between his fingers, dark nails glinting under the light. "Just so we're clear — you're saying that you wanted me to stop pretending to be your boyfriend because you want to really be my boyfriend?"

Louis flushes. When put that way, it sounds incredibly juvenile. "I — well — I may have been a little dramatic about it, but that's the gist of it, yes."

Ira nods, a contemplative expression crossing his face, and then spreads his hands. "Okay."

Louis blinks. "Okay?" he splutters. "What do you mean, _okay_?"

"I mean, okay, let's do it," Ira says.

Louis does a very good impression of a catfish for several moments, heart beating thick in his throat. Ira laughs at him again, because it's what he does best.

"The fake dating thing might've been a fun bit at first," he continues, "but I don't want it to be anymore. I haven't, for a while, but it was easier to — stick to the status quo, if it meant getting to be close to you, you know?" Louis must still look shellshocked, because Ira reaches out to grab his hand again, thumb smoothing over the knob of Louis's wrist, as reassuring as Meryl Streep's list of Oscar nominations, or the knowledge that Mom will always be the undisputed Scrabble champion of the family. "I wouldn't block out my Sunday for just anyone, especially not to meet their parents."

"A compelling argument," Louis manages. He stares down at their linked hands, boggling a little. "So you're not going to kick me off the podcast?"

"Louis," Ira says, still exasperated but also fond, mouth pinched the way it always is when he's trying not to laugh. "If I hadn't already done it after a whole year of suffering…"

"Oh, fuck off," Louis says, lacing their fingers tighter together. It's nice to have something to hold onto. "It was a serious concern!"

Ira rolls his eyes. "Believe me, I know. Kara was blowing up my phone the whole time I was in Wisconsin."

"Sorry," Louis says, pinching his nose with his free hand. "God, we should probably tell her."

Ira bumps their legs together beneath the table. "What, you don't want to hit all the secret dating tropes too?"

"Don't tempt me," Louis says, tossing his head. He bites his lip. "So — we're dating now. For real. That's what's happening here."

"Yeah," Ira says simply, easy as anything, like Louis hasn't been twisting himself into knots about it for months. "No more games." He smirks. "Well, I mean, we can play plenty of other games if that's what you want — I have some ideas — but not about this. Not about us."

"Okay," Louis echoes. "Okay." He feels, suddenly, as though he's just run a marathon at a full sprint. He sags back against his seat, winded, as Ira slides his chair closer and leans in to kiss his cheek, the corner of his mouth.

"I'm still lowkey mad at you, just so you know," Ira says conversationally. "I can't believe you just ran out on me like that on Sunday."

"Lemont High School class of 2004 track and field, baby," Louis says, mouth curling into a smile. "I'll make it up to you, though. Promise." He leans in to finally kiss Ira properly, firm and warm and real. It's better than he'd ever imagined it would be, Ira's palm cradling his jaw, relief and happiness and pleasure coursing down his throat like a shot of hard liquor.

Donna, like any good server, waits till they're finished before she comes back with the bottle of champagne. This time, Louis actually gets to taste it.


End file.
